


Peacocks and Eels

by curvyradios



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:20:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28936899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curvyradios/pseuds/curvyradios
Summary: How does Draco feel about the peacocks?
Kudos: 1





	Peacocks and Eels

I’ve never liked the peacocks and they’ve never liked me. I don’t know whether they like anyone but they have Mother’s adoration and Father’s pride. 

They’re white, which doesn’t make sense, and they’re given all of the accommodations. They strut and they’re fed gold leaf. 

I’m spoiled too. I was. But I know that now. It’s the peacocks that still walk like they don’t have a clue what happened here. 

What they presided over; what there is to be ashamed of. 

I wish Father had gotten rid of them. They’re a joke now. We’re not that family anymore. We are living in grand ruins. The peacocks alone are proof of that.

Father thinks there may be something left to reclaim—perhaps because, eel-like, he slipped through their fingers, avoided Azkaban. I used to believe too. Circled him, clung. 

Now I know there is nothing left there and yet I cannot allow myself to disappoint. The peacocks don’t. Maybe he keeps them out of hope. 

Or maybe because—who else would want them? In their cry isn’t there the mournful sound of creatures that have witnessed death? 

Often, they startle me.

They glide along, ghostly pale and I see His hands, His face. Even their eyes: red-rimmed. They are an embodiment of Him.

Another reason I can’t stay here any longer. Why I have to escape. I’m surprised anything still grows here after Him. Maybe He only destroys humans, not things and plants and animals. 

Every spring the willow leaves bud and grow, brush the glossy surface of the lake where pimplies float. Bees dance around Mother’s rose garden. Glossy beetles nestle between the folds. Sometimes there are even fairies in the woods. I hear them, humming. 

Do they spite me? 

It seems I am the only one who’s lost. The only one who is dying, sleeping, caught in between.

Sometimes I watch the clouds move in the dark water and my mind becomes liquid too. What might it be like to be algae? Held but quietly lifted and swaying in smooth, cool, velvet with nothing to become and nothing to do.

**Author's Note:**

> Just something that came out of a strange writing prompt involving peacocks, eels and bees.


End file.
